Probation Officer #82: Samoan childrearing patterns

Sa’afia looked at me. “Yes, of course. When I was a girl.”

“So who used it? Your mom? Your dad?” I was on dangerous ground. I wasn’t asking out of erotic curiosity. I didn’t want Sa’afia to tell me a story about childhood discipline, or to think I was asking for one. There’s no such thing as a sexy story about Sa’afia being punished when she was little. There’s nothing sexy about a little girl, or anyone, getting hurt against their will. It’s just so.

“My pa. He’d take me to my room, and he’d whip me cross my bum. Backs of my legs. God, if I talked back I’d have bruises for weeks.”

global_logo-200wI hate, vehemently hate, adults hitting children, but my own feelings aren’t necessarily any guide to how other people feel about their childhoods. I’d once told a parolee that his parents’ punishments had been borderline abusive. It had been a stupid thing to say, since there was nothing I could do to change the past and he wasn’t going to get any help from the State if he needed counselling. Unless it was from me. So I’d pretty much destroyed my rapport with that client, for nothing.

These days I shut up and was less judgemental. I also knew that Samoan families traditionally used levels of physical punishment that people from a lot of other cultures – mine, for example – would find unreasonably violent, if they knew about it. I still hated the idea of adults hitting children, but it was up to Sa’afia what she felt about her own life. 

I said, “Okay.” Then I pulled my embarrassed face. “So if there’s anything I should not do when I use this stick, because it could remind you of something, with bad associations … Then this would be a good time to mention it.”

Sa’afia looked at me, not pleased. “I have nothing to report, Mr Probation Officer, sir.” She was a little angry.

“Then I bet you were an absolute brat, and deserved everything you got.”

Probation Officer 81: The sticky item

rodIt was a wooden rod about the length of my arm and the thickness of my thumb. There was a silver handle at one end, carved with intricate patterns, with slight indentations to allow a comfortable grip.

The business end had been carved with long straight grooves, about two millimetres deep, at four millimetre intervals. It had been dyed a dark purplish brown.

caned brownIt was a serious instrument of discipline. The grooves would bite and pinch the skin when the rod landed. It would hurt, and leave dramatic welts. It would be quite tricky to use it effectively without hurting Sa’afia more than I wanted. Whatever Sa’afia wanted. In her current state of mind and body, she probably thought she needed more hurt that I’d feel right about giving her. But in this respect as in others, she would not be choosing what happened.

I looked at her. I probably looked a little doubtful. She did not.

A thought struck me. “You’ve been punished with this before. Haven’t you?” 

Probation Officer #80: Submissive humour

wolfieI broke character at last and grinned at Sa’afia like a cartoon wolf, all hunger, treachery and lechery. “Hello, sexy. Good evening.”

She said, “And sexy welcome.”

I kissed her for that, or for something, and then looked serious and heartless again. “Were you told to be naked?”

“Yes.” She saw my expression. “Yes, sir.” 

“And are you naked?”

“No, sir.”

 “No. You’re not. You disobeyed me.”

“Sorry, sir.” She made some effort to ensure she didn’t look remotely sorry. Her spanking had been solemnly intense. Now she was in reaction, on an endorphin high, and it was making her playful.  

“I don’t accept disobedience from you, Sa’afia.” I didn’t have to be playful just because she was. I was the act’s straight man. But I smacked her hard enough to divert her attention from her hormonal ride. “Get those fucking socks off. Now.”

Sa’afia took a breath and bent with demonstrative neatness at the waist to peel them down, one by one, and step out of them. She foot-scooted them across the kitchen floor in the general direction of the bedroom door. She looked at me. “Sorry sir, I must have misunderstood you. I thought you’d like them.” 

“Sa’afia. You just have to do as you’re told. It’s not hard. But if I have to teach you obedience, I will.” 

“Well, teach me. I’m listening.” 

“Give me that stick, girl.” 

Sa’afia looked doubtful. “Give you the stick? Well okay, if you’ll assume the position.”

minnieA subbie joke. Dom jokes are every bit as bad. It wasn’t hard to look unamused. “Take the stick in your hands, holding it in the middle, and pass it to me. So I can punish you with it. Starting with six across the backs of your legs for that little stupidity.” 

“The backs of my legs? That hurts!” 

“Did I say six? I mean ten. Would you like me to make it more?” 

“Sir!” Sa’afia turned, took the stick from the table and held it out towards me, cradling it in both hands. I took it. 

Probation Officer #79: From the inside

Sa’afia opened her mouth and shut it. She frowned, and then nodded solemnly.

“And I’m going to find your little cunt wet, girl. If you’re not wet, I’m going to take my belt to you. Understood?”

She’d already have been wet, but I gave her a few seconds to react to the threat to take my belt to her. I knew that would have reached her. Sa’afia nodded, then gasped when I pushed inside her, reaching excited girl wertness immediately.

I pressed my fingers upwards, from inside her, to press against that spongy upper vaginal wall. And I smacked her again with my other hand. Sa’afia made a higher pitched sound, with very little pain in it. She was going to come soon, if I wasn’t careful. I said, “shhhhhhh.”

hugs afterI kissed her, still stroking slippery, sensitive Sa’afia cunt. Sa’afia turned to face me, spread her thighs wider, and put her arms round me. We kissed. I was still stroking her, but I rested my other hand on her ass. She was burning hot on the undercurves of her buttocks, where I’d smacked her hardest.

I could have objected to her moving without my permission, but she was too welcome in my arms for me to pretend to make an issue of it. Neither of us could help reaching for the other. We were a clothed Jaime and a naked, freshly spanked Sa’afia, holding each other.

We’d been here before. It was all as it should be.

Probation Officer #78: Soft, and puffy

aftermath2Sa’afia pushed her lips forward with her mouth slightly open. It wasn’t a pout. It was an expression she formed sometimes, when she focussed inward, on her own sensations. I wanted to kiss her, my abstracted girl, but it wasn’t the moment.

I smacked her again, the flat of my hand landing hard on sweetly feminine flesh, mostly targeting the softer, more sensitive skin of the undercurves of her bottom. She wanted it to hurt. I knew that like I knew that  her heart was racing and her cunt was wet, and that she’d hate anything that reduced this to playfulness. Not now.  

I kept the smacks hard and made sure they landed on more or less the same spot on each cheek, low and central. Sa’afia was having trouble holding still.

After a dozen hard smacks she closed her eyes, to concentrate on  and appreciate each impact. She made her sound of discomfort somewhere after the second dozen. My hand stung by then, and her skin was burning.  

I wasn’t going to stop because she was making pain noises. What she wanted was important to me, in reality, but she had to feel that it had no weight at all. I gave her four hard smacks in a row on her left side, purely to show her that it hurt more that way, then repeated on her right. Her discomfort sound continued right through that part of her spanking, and she didn’t stop vocalising for several seconds after I stopped to let her catch her breath.

I reached my left hand a little further down her belly, to pinch and then stroke the folds of her cunt. Soft, her outer lips were, and puffy. I said, “You know where my fingers are going next? Don’t speak.”

Probation Officer #77: Lemon-colored

Sa’afia was in the kitchen. She had her back to me. Her bare back. I stopped at the end of the corridor to stare at her. A dark-golden girl. Sweet thighs with just a trace of plumpness, and a very slight tremor in the muscle just under the crease of her left buttock. Gorgeous ass, with a swimsuit triangle of slightly paler skin contrasting with the tanned skin of her back and legs.

She had her hands on her head, so I could just see the swell of the underside of her left breast. 

She must have heard me coming down the corridor, though I’d tried to be quiet when I approached. But I was sure she hadn’t had her hands on her head all the time she was waiting. Other girls who enjoyed being bad girls, or at least being treated as bad girls, had told me that holding their arms in that position starts to hurt at about half an hour, and burns after about an hour.

I appreciated that it was costing her some effort not to turn around. My silence was unnerving her. 

ass and socksSa’afia had brought out two things to set our agenda. There was some sort of rod on the table, thicker than I expected, wood rather than rattan or cane. And she was wearing a pair of bright lemon-coloured socks. The socks were to disobey what I’d told her on the phone, that she had to be naked. The horrible dayglo-citrus colour was to make sure I noticed, and to make it clear that I was supposed to notice. And the rod meant what it meant.

It crossed my mind to say something amused about the socks, something playful and reassuring.

But I stepped forward suddenly, without having formed any conscious intention, and put the flat of my left hand on her lower belly, where the top of her pubic hair would have been. Sa’afia was a waxing girl. With my right hand I pushed her shoulders gently so she leaned forward, slightly bent at the waist.

Sa’afia looked at my face, and I nodded. I didn’t know what I meant, but she did. Then I smacked her bottom, hard, watching her eyes. She held her face turned to mine but she was no longer really looking at me. She was focussing on sensation now, not on the visual world. I watched her mouth for the little movement she made when I hurt her a little.

And, with real force, I smacked her again. 

Probation Officer #76: Trust

browniesIt was possible that Sa’afia wouldn’t be home when I arrived. Or that the front door would be locked. Or that she’d be waiting for me, but she’d be dressed and ready to chat about something or other until I edged her decorously to her bedroom. But I expected her to be waiting in the kitchen, obedient, naked, a little apprehensive, and wet.

If she weren’t standing where and how I’d ordered her, it’d be an important rejection, and it’d hurt like hell, actually. But I felt confident – surprisingly so in retrospect – that she’d be waiting, and there. I trusted her lust, and her courage to get what she wanted.

I stopped the van outside Sa’afia’s place. Maybe it was a shame I’d met Ana first. Love can be arbitrary. I couldn’t come up with reasons why Ana was more worthy of passionate love than Sa’afia. I didn’t know why, except that Ana needed me, and there was something in her liveliness and grace that called me. I didn’t understand my love for Ana, but that didn’t take a damn thing away from its power.

The one thing I could say for myself, as I locked the van and walked to Sa’afia’s door, was that I’d never used Sa’afia as a substitute for Ana. I’d never thought of Ana when Sa’afia and I fucked. Whatever happened between us when we were together, dressed or not, was full-blooded (hah!) and full-hearted. It was ours, between Sa’afia and me. Monogamy didn’t matter to me. But focussing on the person you’re with, that mattered to my sense of what was right.

caning 2Sa’afia and I hadn’t talked enough, but that would have to change soon. When we did talk we’d find out what we wanted from each other later. The things I said when I didn’t lie to her about love might hurt her, as she might hurt me. I could hurt her physically, with a stiff cock and the knowledge that I was turning her on, but I’d hate to hurt her heart. Maybe, though, we liked the power and the sex, and that was what we wanted to keep and explore. 

I reached the gate. The print of Minnie Mouse, a little crumpled, was stuck in the doorjamb. 

Sa’afia was waiting for me, ready or not, naked or not.

I opened the door.

Probation Officer #75: Comparisons

Sa’afia and I were moving bits of our lives together. It was happening very quickly, probably faster than I’d noticed happening before. I wanted to fuck Sa’afia a lot, not just right then, behind the wheel of my ancient Bedford, but most of the time. I liked Sa’afia a lot, too. I enjoyed her company in simple and uncomplicated ways, as well as pleasurably complex ways. She was beautiful. Actually she was more beautiful than Ana. She was certainly wiser. She wanted some things from me than complemented what I wanted in her, though that had nothing to do with wisdom. 

two black girlzBut comparisons with Ana were dangerous. I shouldn’t make them. 

I felt something strong for Sa’afia, more than sexual desire. But thinking about what I felt for Sa’afia made me face something I’d tried not to think about: I was in love with Ana.

There was nothing I could do about being in love with Ana. I couldn’t switch it off. I couldn’t claim Ana, either, and make us lovers. I’d told Ana I desired her, but I’d only said it because I knew that it wasn’t news to her. She’d already seen me get a stupid adolescent erection when I was supposed to be talking to her about policemen.

At least I hadn’t told her that I was in love with her. I shouldn’t tell her that and I wouldn’t. It wasn’t much to hang on to, but that was what I hadn’t lost.

I’d grown up believing that love was the most important thing and the strongest force in the world. My parents were powerful evidence for that worldview. But I’d started to learn that while love outweighs most other things you can put in the balance, it won’t always hold down the scales. Sometimes other obligations win, and love is what you have to swallow. Keep down. Keep inside.

Well, that was Ana.

I was driving towards Sa’afia.

Probation Officer #74: In the details

Sa’afia and her mother must have long ago worked out how they dealt with Sa’afia being a good-ish girl who had sex. We hadn’t talked about our life stories much, but the fact that we’d finished up in bed together within a few hours of meeting for the first time said something about both of us. Her mother must have discovered and processed the signs that her daughter had sex. 

There’d probably been some kind of confrontation between them, once her mom had to admit that she knew that her daughter was enjoying men and boys in their beds and in hers. By now they must have worked out how they dealt with that.

But did Sa’afia have a diary-reading, checking under the knickers in the second drawer, kind of mother? I didn’t know. Did Sa’afia care whether her mother knew who she fucked? I didn’t know that either. My guess was that the answer to both questions was, “probably”. 

get overBut the game Sa’afia and I were about to play was something else, something more forbidden than ordinary sex. Her daughter was waited for me, naked by the table, on which she’d placed the “stick” she’d kept mentioning. She  expected me to stripe her bottom with that stick till she made noises that I judged had the right kind of desperation in them.

Then I’d growl at her to get her ass up and spread her legs, and when she obeyed I’d ease my cock into her, pushing my hands down onto her back, just below her shoulder blades, to crush her breasts against the cold hard wood while I fucked her.

cuntcuntI thought of Sa’afia, cute little bottom pointed towards the kitchen door and the main corridor, expectant, knowing roughly what to expect from me, and knowing how important and how sexy it was that while she knew the general plan she didn’t know the details, and that I wasn’t going to consult her about those details.

It occured to me that I could just walk in and put my fingers in her cunt. Without speaking. I knew I’d find her honey-wet, whatever we did.

A car in front of me stopped suddenly, without signalling, waiting to turn left. I had only a second to slam on the brakes and check the left lane. There was no car to my left and I swerved the van into the left lane, saved by late but fast reflexes. I went on my way, with a thudding heart and closer attention to the road.

Anyway, that game. It would be a fine game, and I expected that Sa’afia would be pleasantly out of her mind with lust before midnight. And yet, she wouldn’t want her mother to know anything at all about that.

I wondered, as Sa’afia was no doubt wondering, as she stood incongruously naked and obedient in her kitchen, what in the world we were getting ourselves into. 

Probation Officer #73: Trojan horse

I drove to Sa’afia’s with tomorrow’s underpants, socks and shirt riding shotgun in the bucket seat. I’d left last night’s shirt with her, with instructions to get the curry traces cleaned out of it, but I didn’t expect ever to wear that shirt again. 

Man's business shirt, above sub-pudendal inter-gracile fossa, through the sun always shines.

Man’s business shirt, above sub-pudendal inter-gracile fossa.

Sa’afia worked the same hours I did, and she’d had no chance to do more than leave it to soak. Or rub it with soap or spray it, or whatever she preferred.

I was a bucket man, myself, with a bit of oxygen bleach in tepid water. Though, truth be told, mostly I just expected stains to wash out or fade over successive washes. I’d put salt on red wine stains and hope for the best.

I bet Sa’afia had opinions on that. If we ever got tired of fucking and discovering each other, we could have that chat about doing the laundry. Anyway, I brought along another shirt for tomorrow.  

Trojan horse, with Trojans. And lubricated wire coathangers, apparently.

Trojan horse, with Trojans. And lubricated wire coathangers, apparently.

In any case, I was going to give her last night’s shirt. She’d looked good in it. Once I’d given it to her, when she wore it she’d look more than good. She’d look mine.

Sa’afia would know what shirts mean, so her wearing it for me would be an admission, affirming my acquisition and her acquiescence. A man’s shirt might look innocuous, but as a gift to a woman it’s a Trojan horse. 

In the same spirit I’d stopped by a chemist and brought a new pack of condoms and a toothbrush. To say that when I visited I fucked her, that I intended to go on visiting and fucking her, and we should be prepared for that. And to say that I stayed the night, thanks. I was going to let Sa’afia see me leave them both in her bedside drawer.

Or maybe I should put them some place her mother wouldn’t look.